My So Called Life (Love Not Included Series Book 3)

by J. D. Hollyfield

  I clutch at his arms to stay upright. He presses his mouth harder to mine, working my lips open and inviting himself into my mouth. I moan, breaking his last bit of control. His feet are moving me backwards as he presses me into the shelves, knocking art supplies to the floor as he makes love to my mouth.

  This kiss is shattering my sense of right and wrong. What makes it so wrong is how long I’ve been denied his mouth. What makes it so right is how we fit perfectly together. Just like we did eons ago.

  My grip on his arm loosens as he shifts one hand to my waist. I feel his other firm hand mold itself to my ass cheek. Working me like clay, he melds my body closer to his.

  Yep, no mistaking that hardness.

  God, I’ve longed for this. The want. The need. That explosive feeling inside your chest when you are experiencing something so strongly it tilts your world. My hands instinctively reach for something to anchor me. I dig my fingers into the thick hair at his nape. My fingers plunge deep in his dark locks as I hold on for dear life, never wanting this kiss to end.

  “I’ve been dreaming about this moment.” He dips his mouth past my chin, trailing kiss after gentle kiss down my neck to my collarbone. “Your mouth. I’ve never stopped thinking about your mouth. Since that first kiss. It ruined me.” More kissing, more licking. “I’ve done nothing but think and wonder just how that mouth would taste now.” He takes a sharper nip of my neck, blows a breath to cool the overheated tingle, and then his lips are on mine again.

  His confession has me panting between kisses. His words hit places that I want more than anything for him to explore. Thankfully he has the same mindset, because his hand is working its way down my stomach. He opens a button and delves lower into my pants.

  Oh, God, I should stop him. But it’s like a war with my hormones right now and both my brain and bits are screaming the same thing: you’re on a break.

  Before I have a chance to decide, I feel his finger dip inside. He presses upward, sending a jolting response from me as he strokes my insides. My sanity finally slips and all I want now is for him to rip my clothes off and take me fast and hard on this closet floor.

  The urge to come undone in his arms is strong. My moaning has him just as worked up. He’s breathing heavily and rubbing his hard self against me, ready to lose his own battle with reality. His fingers turn greedy and more aggressive, taking me away to a place that I’ve longed to go with him since the moment I stepped foot back in Oregon.

  “Oh, God, Ian, I’m going to come.” I’m about to go flying and he needs to be ready to catch me. My silent scream shakes me as it hits me full force, throwing my head back in pure ecstasy.

  Holding my quaking body, Ian kisses me. “God, Chris, you’re even better than I remember. Just perfect,” he says into the crook of my neck. I go to grab at his pants, completely uncaring that we are in the most inappropriate place ever. He grabs my hand to stop me.

  “But . . . what about you?”

  “Trust me, I got what I wanted.” He dips back into my neck, his breath causing goose bumps to form down my arms. My eyes close at his touch.

  “I was just a teenager, you know,” I breathe softly.

  “Know what?”

  “You said you remember me being perfect. I didn’t even know what I was doing back then.” My eyes are still shut. My head rests against the shelf, allowing him better access to my flushed skin.

  “And you were perfect back then.” He raises his hand to my mouth, tracing his thumb along my swollen lips.

  Opening my eyes to meet his, I whisper, “You were my fist kiss you know. My first everything.” I remember us that night on the swings at the school playground. Even later that year in his bedroom.

  “And even back then I wanted to be your last.”

  That confession guts me. His last.

  My conscience decides to resurface. What the hell did I just let happen?

  I snap out of my lust bubble and take a hefty push at Ian’s body. “Why would you say that to me?” Shame for what I just allowed to happen consuming me.

  “What? What’s wrong?” he asks, confused at my complete mood swing.

  “Wanting me to be your last? Why would you say that?”

  “Chrissy, I was in love with you and I wanted us to have a future. I didn’t go off to college without you. I waited for you. Wasn’t that enough proof that I wanted us to be a forever?”

  Cat’s got my tongue on this one. Denial’s a bitch, but I always believed Ian was too good for me. I convinced myself he wouldn’t stay with someone messed-up like me. I lived in fear that one day he would see the real me. Depressed, broken home, unstable teenager. Shit, I would have ditched me if I could.

  “I thought we were planning a future, Chris.” His broken words tear at me. “Until, of course, you decided to ditch me after I waited for you.”

  His words begin to anger me. He knew what I was going through then. The depression. The abuse. He knew I never planned to stay in Ashford. I didn’t ask him to drop anything for me. I left because I needed to go and chose not to ruin his life while I tried to fix mine.

  He pulls away from me and stares me down. “There you go again, having that silent battle in your head. Just like you used to do. Speak your mind, Chrissy. Fight with me. Tell me what you’re thinking. Or are you just going to close yourself off and leave again? Not caring about those you leave behind?”

  Who does he think he is? “How dare you say that to me.” I breathe heavily in the throes of panic and close to breaking down. “I didn’t leave you. I asked you to come with me.”

  “You asked me to run away. I couldn’t do that. I asked you to stay and fight. You chose to run.”

  “I did what I had to do.”

  “Exactly, Chrissy. You did what you had to do. What about me? I loved you. You were supposed to be my future.”

  “Stop saying that!” I demand.

  “What—does the truth hurt? Does it hurt to know what it did to me after you left? To your sister?”

  I slap him across his beautiful face. His hand goes to his reddened cheek as I gasp at my reaction to his truthful words.

  His words. All sharp. Weapons that wound, causing my heart to bleed with regret.

  “It was high school, Ian. We were young. We weren’t married or anything. We just made up plans to pretend our lives didn’t suck. They were never real plans. Or you would have . . .” I can’t finish my sentence. Because I know he would have done anything for me.

  His facial expression is that of a crushed man.

  “I couldn’t stay here,” I choke out. “You knew that.” I sound so small, trying to defend myself now.

  “You couldn’t stay here or with me? I told you I would have protected you.”

  At that I erupt. “You couldn’t protect me from her!” I yell. “No one could. I was done. Done living my life surrounded by hate and violence. I was done feeling like I was nothing to this world and being told I was a mistake. I was done.”

  “You weren’t a mistake! Goddammit, when are you going to see that? You were never a mistake. Your mother was sick, and yeah, she was horrible, but you were surrounded by love. You were just so wrapped up in hating your mother that you didn’t see the people fighting to show you how much we cared. Me, Amy, your friends. You weren’t alone.”

  “Don’t act like you know,” I say. “Don’t turn this around on me. I left because I had to.” I’m like a broken record, using the same excuse over and over to justify my actions.

  “Fine, see it that way, if you have to. But just know, you left a whole lot of people behind who loved you . . .” He pauses, taking in breath after fighting breath. “Including me.”

  After I left, just to force myself to sleep at night, I would remind my torn soul that he would have left me eventually. Probably sooner than later once we were off at college together. So with all the pain I was already carrying, I decided to leave first.

  His painful words are starting to form some doubts for me. Was my whole r
easoning for running built on lies? What if my whole life is built on false notions I told myself?

  I’m crying now. I’m not sure when I let my wall fall or when my tears began to spill, but I can feel the wetness on my cheeks.

  “And for what it’s worth,” he continues, “I was going to ask you to marry me. I wanted you to be my forever. So I was going to make you mine. You came to my house to tell me you were leaving the day I bought the ring.”

  I stare at him in shock. I’m about to break into a million pieces. I don’t know what else to say. I push away my doubts. I left for reasons I felt people should understand. I left because I knew Amy was never going to give up on our mother, like I felt she needed to. I left because I needed to find a life free of all that hate.

  But Ian is the one who leaves now. Without another word, he turns his back and walks out of the supply closet.

  Leaving me alone.

  I slide to the ground with my face in my hands. I let out a guttural cry, because the pain inside me can’t be contained any longer. I sob into my hands for what seems like forever, until I find the strength to pull myself off the floor.

  I gather the scattered supplies, place them back on the shelves, and leave the closet.

  Thankfully, I drove my own car today. I call Henry’s wife, Patti, and ask if she would be willing to take Pippa overnight, to which she happily agrees. I stop at the house to grab a few things and head out.

  I need to go home to California. I need to see Brent and end this once and for all. I need to look at my life in California and remember why I left Ashford. And why this beautiful life I could have had is not where I belong.

  I WEAVE THROUGH THE night traffic, trying to dodge not only speeding vehicles but also any memory of the hurt on Ian’s face or his stinging words. My erratic emotions have me driving at speeds illegal in any state, mainly because it’s frowned upon to drive twenty-five miles under the speed limit. This, of course, gets me another one-on-one with the state police. Even crying to the officer didn’t help, and almost got me arrested when he completely misread my emotional breakdown for possible intoxication. I mean who can walk perfectly straight along a white line in five-inch heels while crying like an unstable banshee?

  I make it back to San Francisco close to midnight. I feel bad that I’m going to wake Brent, but I need to do this. I can’t wait for later to make things right. I’ve tried calling his cell, but it consistently goes to voicemail. I attempt to park the rental car in our designated building spot, but there’s a car blocking my way.

  I’m boggled at how the building management could allow an unauthorized vehicle to park in the VIP penthouse’s reserved spot, but it’s also late. As soon as I settle my worried mind, I’ll come back down and complain.

  I park in a visitor spot and head inside the high-rise. I frown at Mr. Sampson, the late-night security/doorman who doesn’t show any enthusiasm to see me. As much as he gets paid to be courteous, he sure is slacking on his duties.

  I slide my card into the penthouse slot and the elevator takes me right up.

  The drive, along with my emotional breakdown, has drained me, and I close my eyes, leaning back against the cool, mirrored elevator walls. The ding notifies me that I’ve arrived at the top floor. I push off the wall and head out. I might have to get few hours of beauty rest before I start my ‘it’s you not me’ speech. I slide my key card into the door and it opens, allowing my entrance into the condo. The sudden aroma of stale booze smacks me in the face the moment the door is fully open. I step inside and look around the normally pristine penthouse to what looks like the aftermath of an intense party.

  “What the hell?” I mutter as I walk further inside.

  Empty bottles and dirty glasses litter the counters and tables. The place is a disaster. I stumble over a pair of red heels, toppled on the floor. I bend over to pick one up, and the shoe certainly doesn’t look like any pair I own. Too big. Wrong brand. I hear giggling coming from the bedroom.

  I stop in my tracks, waiting to hear the unwelcome noise again.

  And there it is.

  Fucking giggling.

  And it’s coming from the bedroom.

  Bubbling anger forms in my chest. I really don’t want to think what I’m thinking right now, but I am.

  But he wouldn’t.

  But then again, he would.

  Because he’s a dick.

  I try to convince myself to calm my hectically building temper that he’s not back there. And those aren’t females I hear giggling in the bedroom with him.

  And yes, that’s females. Plural, as in more than one.

  I drag my heavy feet down the hallway to the bedroom entrance. I open the door to find Brent stark naked in the middle of the bed, holding a bottle of Cristal in one hand and a woman’s unnaturally sized breast in another.

  “What the fuck?” I choke out. My voice surprises the titty squeeze right out of Brent. He jumps, dropping the bottle onto the bed, expensive liquid spilling all over the Persian comforter.

  “Shit . . . oh, shit . . .” He frantically tries to unlock his legs from the blonde underneath him. “Babe. Oh, shit . . . what are you doing here?”

  “What am I doing here?” I ask. “What am I doing here?” I repeat, the threat of death in my voice.

  “Babe . . . hold on.” Brent slides off the bed, holding his hands up in surrender. “Let me explain. This . . . this . . . it’s not what you think.” He’s pointing at the two naked bimbos sprawled on the bed, fighting not to giggle. Not to motherfucking giggle.

  And cue the dramatics.

  “I knew it, you asshole.” I turn to the dresser to my right and pick up the first thing I can grab, which happens to be Brent’s $800 bottle of imported cologne.

  And I whip it.

  At his head.

  Shame he has better reflexes than I hoped. He dodges and it shatters, splattering on the wall behind him.

  “That was my Clive Christian!” he wails.

  “Oh, was it?” I inquire, rage dripping off each word. “Oh, well then, how about this one?” I pick up his crystal bottle of limited-edition Tom Ford cologne.

  “No . . . no. Christina, babe don’t. No, not that—”

  I cut him off, forcing him to duck another flying object. One that also shatters against the wall. This time, those bimbos do not fight a giggle, more like a screech, as they’re sprayed with cologne.

  “Oh, my God, it’s in my eyes!” one shrieks as she bounces off the bed, trying frantically to rub away the fragrance dripping down her cheeks.

  “You fucking asshole,” I say again, more because it’s making me feel better. I’m about two seconds away from collapsing, I’m so physically and emotionally drained.

  “Christina, I swear if you throw one more thing at me . . .”

  Men just never learn. Women do not take well to threats. And I am no exception. I turn, eyeing the remaining items displayed on his dresser.

  And I see the watch.

  Bingo.

  I pick up the Diamond Rolex that he probably paid more for than most people spend on their vehicles. I take the watch and dangle it on the end of my index finger. “You know what, Brent? Actually, I’m not mad. I get it now. See, we were on a break. But I’m gonna bet my right tit, we weren’t every other time. So thank you. Thank you for making me a little less guilty for my own actions.”

  “Christina.” He says my name in warning. “Why don’t you put that down.” He attempts a few cautious steps closer, gauging if it’s safe to get within reach and take me down. But of course he’s a fucking pussy, and all I have to do is twirl the watch faster.

  I smile as he backs up quickly to where he started. “That’s what I thought. Now, since you couldn’t give me the time of day to answer a simple fucking phone call, I am going to tell you to your pathetic ass face. We. Are. Done. Not only is our break over, but so are we.”

  God, that felt good.

  With nothing left to say, I whip the watch toward the bathroom
. Brent leaps, but it’s too late. The watch soars past him and smacks the marble tile with a satisfying ping. The case shatters, scattering glass and sending all those precious diamonds in every direction across the floor.

  Brent scrambles to his knees, with his two naked bimbos close behind. I don’t stick around to watch them try to scoop up his precious diamonds.

  I turn and head back to where I came from.

  Out the door and back down past the front desk.

  I flip off Mr. Sampson, since now I understand why he wasn’t happy to see me, and leave the premises.

  I’ve spent way too long trying to fight what my heart really wants. It’s always wanted Ian. It never truly stopped. My life was empty before Brent came along and even when he filled my bedroom, he never truly filled my heart.

  As I rush home to Ashford, my only thought is that I hope it’s not too late.

  IT’S JUST PAST DAWN by the time I make it back to town. I’m functioning strictly on nerves and power drinks when I pull into the driveway Siri found for me. I don’t think about the time or my less-than-presentable appearance. I just bang frantically on the cold wooden barrier until thankfully, I hear the sounds of locks being freed.

  As the door opens, I’m rewarded by the heart-stopping view of a tired but shirtless Ian. His muscled chest, coated with a fine sprinkling of hair, rises and falls as he takes in my presence. I don’t miss his surprised look at seeing me on his doorstep. His brain must begin to register the time and my state because his look of surprise turns to concern.

  “Chrissy, what are you doing here?” He pauses, looking me over. “Is everything okay? Is Pippa all right?”

  I want to scream how nothing is all right and that I want to make everything okay at the same time. Instead, without giving him the chance to ask anything more, I throw myself into his arms and slam my mouth against his.

  His body tenses at my unexpected move, but he doesn’t fight me long and gives in almost immediately, welcoming my soft lips.

  “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry . . .” I repeat over and over as I pour my heart out through my pleading lips, my kisses becoming frantic. “I’m so sorry, Ian—”